Stormy Springtime

‘It’s quite ready, Mrs Culver,’ said Meg soothingly, ‘and there’s a lovely fire in the drawing-room. I’ll bring the tray in there.’ She drew a chair to the fire. ‘I made some scones—you’ll enjoy those.’

Only Mrs Culver didn’t; she drank several cups of tea, her nice face becoming more and more flushed, and when Meg suggested that she might like to go to her bed, she agreed without a fuss.

‘Well, you stay there for a few minutes; I’ll see to the electric blanket and warm your nightie. I won’t be long.’

She was barely ten minutes, and when she got back it was to find Mrs Culver shivering and reluctant to leave her chair. It took a good deal of coaxing to get her up the stairs and into her room, and once there Meg helped her undress and tucked her up in bed, and then proceeded to sponge off Mrs Culver’s carefully applied make-up and comb her hair.

‘I feel awful,’ said Mrs Culver.

Meg refrained from telling her that she looked awful and worse every minute. ‘A chill,’ she said bracingly. ‘I’m going to get you a warm drink and phone Doctor Woods. He’ll give you something to make you feel better.’

She had known Doctor Woods all her life, and he had been in and out of the house for weeks before her mother died. She liked his forthright, gruff manner, and he for his part knew that she wasn’t a girl to panic.

By the time he arrived, some twenty minutes later, Mrs Culver was looking decidedly worse.

‘’Flu,’ said Doctor Woods. ‘There’s a lot of it about. Got anyone to fetch a prescription?’

‘No. Willy has gone and there’s only Betsy. I’ll have to phone Noakes; he’s the chauffeur and lives in the village. He’ll have to come here and get the car…’

‘Tell you what, I’ll leave enough of these to last until tomorrow; let the chauffeur get the rest in the morning. I’ll be in again tomorrow some time; you’re sensible enough to let me know if you get worried.’

He closed his bag and started getting into his coat. ‘Any family?’

‘A son—Professor Culver…’

‘You don’t say? Brilliant man in his field. You’d better let him know. No danger as far as I can see, but all the same…’

‘I’ll go and do it right away,’ promised Meg.

‘You look a bit peaked yourself, Meg. Working too hard, are you? You could do with a holiday. Where are those sisters of yours?’

‘Well, Cora has her own home and family, as you know, and Doreen’s at the hospital still.’

He grunted, which could have meant anything, patted her on the shoulder and went out to his car, muttering.

Mrs Culver was dozing; she looked ill, but no worse. Meg went downstairs and went to the study and picked up the telephone. The Professor’s number was written neatly on a card beside it, and she dialled it. A London number—and a rather severe voice told her that it was Professor Culver’s residence. ‘Is the Professor there?’ Meg asked. ‘And if he is, will you tell him it’s his mother’s housekeeper?’

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